Jaded Perfection
by lavalieres
Summary: There is a fence between them. Bakura and his darkness, that is. So, they have to settle for a kiss between the links. [Yami no Bakura x Bakura Ryou, series of drabbles, dark themes, yaoi]
1. Beautiful Color

**Drabble #1 : Beautiful Color

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Red is such a beautiful color. It has a way of capturing ones attention and holding it. Has a way of drawing one in. Has a way of enthralling others and luring them.

Yami no Bakura liked red. A lot. It was, by far, his favorite color, the only coming close being black. All other colors were unworthy and ugly. They didn't splatter as beautifully as red did. Didn't stain as well either.

In his time, his favorite cloak was a rich, deep red. The cloak was the only garment he had that he actually worked to keep in good condition. At the time, such colors as red and purple were rare and more expensive, so when the thief had procured enough money from his thievery to buy the cloak, he took great care of it.

The cloak's color also had a practical purpose. With its deep color, it was difficult to see the blood stains that would often cover the soul stealer from his dealings. It was also intimidating. Luxurious enough to convince the nomes into believing that he was more than the peasantry, and rugged enough to fit in with the riffraff.

Yami no Bakura also liked red meat. Having grown accustomed to foraging and meager hunting in the ancient past, he had maintained his taste for raw meat. He had become so adjusted to eating rare meathis stomach had grown so used to digesting itthat he refused to eat it any other way. The more red the meat, the less cooked it was, the better.

He also loved mithril hair, besmeckled with all hews of red. His landlord could be so messy when he was painting his dolls, and always managed to procure some of his paints in his long hair. Yami no Bakura didn't mind. The self-titled "Thief King" loved to run his long fingers through the red splattered locks, smearing the colors until the hair was no longer a silvery hue, but a dull mauve.

But the way he loved red the most was in between two milky thighs. Not enough to run in rivets, but enough to give a pretty picture. He loved to run fingers through the red paint, pulling the color from below to a pale chest, leaving red fingerprints. Even better was when he kissed bitten and blood stained lips, biting to produce more red. Kisses turned into crimson rain on creamy skin. It was so pretty. It was an intoxication.

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	2. With a Kiss

**Drabble #2 : With a Kiss

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A kiss.

That's how it started. But after the first, the situation progressively changed, and the soft brushing of moistened, silk-smooth lips… there was no turning back.

A second kiss, less shy, more explorative.

A soft sigh, urging the other on.

More lips and then, a set of hands, maneuvering so they could rest upon supply pale skin.

Desperation. More demanding, desiring, craving, yearning.

Another kiss. Deeper, fuller, with more moisture and heat. A slip of the tongue, though no words were spoken.

A whimpering moan leading to the frenzied removal of hindering fabrics.

More touches. Hands everywhere. Hoping, seeking, feeling anything and everything.

Humidity, sweltering heat. Dewy skin, glistening like moonlit rain. Tasting saltiness and sweetness. Drowning in perspiration. Rough sliding, moaning and twisting, gasping and heavy breathing.

Pushing and pulling. Closer and closer. Merging of light and dark.

A cry. Pain and joy, love and hate, fear and comfort, heaven and hell.

Jaded perfection wrapped in alabaster and mithril threads.

A plea for more. Pushing, so much pushing. And want, so much want. Harder, more, harder. Reaching, reaching, reaching, until…

Two cries. Then breathing. At first harsh, strangled, then soft, slow. Sleep.

And it started with a kiss.

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	3. Fence

**Drabble #3 : Fence**

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There is a fence between them. Bakura and his darkness, that is. They should see eye to eye, but the vision is construed by chain links of pain and anger. He wants to reach over to his darkness, but the fence is too tall. Bakura wants to climb over the fence, but the fence is like barbed wire, old and rusted with time. It hurts him, cutting open his hands till he bleeds. It hurts his darkness, who leans against it. So they have to settle touching through the breaks; they have to settle for a kiss between the links.

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	4. Gardenia and Frankincence

**Drabble #4 : Gardenia and Frankincence**

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Gardenia was his mother's perfume. Ryou used to love it, for it was his favorite smell. He had loved to wrap his arms around his mother's knees and breathe in the scent of large white flowers. He could tell when she walked into a room, just by the gentle fragrance. That is, until his mother went on, and his father boarded up their room (his father never bothered to sleep anywhere but the couch the few times he was home), so Ryou couldn't even open her bottle of perfume.

The thief changed that. He had his own unique smell. Frankincense, dust, sweat, and blood all seemed to linger around him, though his time had long since past. It was exciting, exhilarating, and enticing. Ryou loved nothing more than to be enveloped by strong arms, submerged in a deep kiss, and breathe in all that was the thief.

So now, Ryou's favorite smell was frankincense. Especially when it was charred and ground into a paste. It could only be shipped in from the thief's homeland, purchased via the internet. But when it came, it was quickly administered to the thief's eyelids. So very pretty under pale strands, and contrasted with ocher. And the aroma was veryvery good.

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**Egytplore:** Frankincense is a tree resin used in Ancient Egypt. It was burned as incense as well as charred and ground to be used as khol. The earliest recorded use of frankincense is found in an inscription on the tomb of a 15th century BC Egyptian queen named Hathsepsut.

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	5. Favorite

**Drabble #5 : #10**

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Yami no Bakura loved Monster World. And he loved all the dolls that he had to go with it. He had a lot now. He had made so many that he had to have them counted. #10 was his favorite. He had made it only a short while ago, so none of the paint was chipped or scratched. It was also, by far, the prettiest of his dolls. The smooth white hair, the beautiful jade eyes. He took it off the shelf he kept it on and placed a kiss on the head. "Yes, Ryou. You're, by far, my favorite."

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	6. Perfect Blue

**Drabble #6 : Perfect Blue**

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He loves his darkness' eyes. His darkness has beautiful eyes: sharp, and the shade of a perfect blue. Cold as ice, but not as hard. They can melt—very seldom—into liquid pools of shimmering cobalt incandescence. Their gaze pierces, creating shivers His darkness loves his hair. Loves to bury his nose in the smell of twilight and loneliness, run his long translucent fingers through silken strands of mithril. They love their kisses; when hands can touch soft, cool silver, and hard azure softens to soft periwinkle. They hate the pain, when translucency cannot take form, and impossibility is lucid.

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	7. No More

**Drabble #7 : No More**

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He had grown tired of it all, the violence and extortion. He hated to see his friends harmed. Hated to know that in the witching hours, he was being used for purposes that he could never truly understand. And he hated to know that mithril hair would become besmeckled with crimson as the thief did his business. He hated having to re-wash his hair every night.

He was tired of it all. The bloodstained kisses forced upon him. All the taking and he received naught in return. Tired of the screams in the night of completion when he was never really complete. Tired of making but not being in love.

So he pulled away. Put up unseen walls. There were no scars on his wrists, nor scars on anywhere else on his body (oh, the thief made sure his possessions were well cared for). But in his heart, the walls were cracking, breaking and disintegrating. He said no words to the others. He was dying mutely, and in increments, so that nobody noticed, because he didn't want to hurt anyone.

For Ryou knew, that once he found peace, the thief could do no more. And there would be no hurt for either him or his friends.

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	8. Voice

**Drabble #8: Voice

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It was completely inconceivable that a spirit—a mere voice in his head—should've been able to control him like _he_ did. _He_ was just a voice, and nothing more. But _he_ became more, and he was powerless to stop it.

It started with the flickers of movement in the corner of his eyes. He told himself that he was seeing things. That he just needed more sleep, he needed to drink less (no, he needed to drink more), and he needed to ignore it. It was only his imagination and there was nothing really there.

Then, the subtle whispers began. A soft murmur in his ear. A dark laughter in his mind. And _his_ voice was perfect. _He_ maintained the perfect balance of tenderness and mockery. Were it taste on his lips, it would've been of dark chocolate, steeped in blood. As lonely as he was, it was so hard not to fall (he began to think falling wasn't so bad).

Eventually, the voice had his—or _his_—complete control. The voice liked his screams and took to grasping him in unexpected moments. Fingers—his own, but only _his_—would wrap around him, pulling and twisting. He was teased and touched, stroked and scorned, belittled and embraced.

When he came, the only voice he heard was his. _His_ voice was gone, and he was alone.

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_So, I'm finally getting around to posting more junk, since I have so much on livejournal rather than here. And, also, because Cody Thomas demands so. xD Enjoy, kiddo!_

_Comments, plz?_


	9. Nightingale

**Drabble #9: Nightingale

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Sometimes he whistles to his landlord during the night. A soft rise and fall of simple chords that follows Ryou as he takes short cuts and ducks past dark alleys.

And Ryou knows he's not the only one who hears it.

When a shadow would move in the dark, and Ryou shuddered from fear, the whistling grew louder. The translucent arms of a murderer would wrap around him, and the thief's lips would brush his ear. Soft strains of an unfamiliar (but soon becoming all too familiar) tune would resonate in the air around him, and wind its way through him. Ryou's eyes would flutter shut and he would relax into the body behind him.

And while the thief whistled, the world grew darker. The shadows that move and all else that would threaten his landlord would cease to be. Screams filled the air that would make the thief grin. Screams that would make a grown man shudder. Screams that Ryou never heard, for all he heard was the soft whistling in the dark.

Once finished, the thief would grace his lips along Ryou's cheeks. A bloodstained kiss. And then, he'd be gone, leaving Ryou on his own doorstep, alone.

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_Protection, but not quite, as is the way with BakuBaku._

_Comments, plz?_


	10. Nightmare

**Drabble #10: Nightmare

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There were times when Ryou's other, the thief, would come to him in the night. Times when the thief would envelope Ryou in an embrace. Times when he would push Ryou down onto the bed in their soul. Times when he would drift his hands over his landlord's body, pausing here and there, seeking sensitive skin.

He would murmur soft words in Ryou's ear, calling him 'beloved'. The thief would pet and stroke him, holding him close, like he knew the Pharaoh held Yuugi. And, gods, it would feel so good. Ryou would whimper and scream, while his other would grip and hold. The thief would be so deep… in him, in his heart, in his mind. Then, Ryou would let go—gods, he'd never let go—and after, the thief would whisper a soft _bak-nesew_, or a _bak-i hedj_, or a _merwt-i_.

They would fall asleep in each other's arms.

There were times when the thief would come to him in the night. But Ryou would wake up, sweaty, sobbing, and sullied. There were times, but they were always just a dream.

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_**Egyptian translations:**  
_bak-nesew - King's servant (msculn.)_  
_bak-i hedj - my white/bright/silver servent (msculn.)_  
--Both bak... terms are Bakura's play on Ryou's last name.  
_merwt-i - love 

_Comments, plz?_


	11. Running in Circles

**Drabble #11: Running in Circles**

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Sometimes in life it's easy to run, to escape hardships in life. Sometimes, though, running can get you nowhere.

Such was the case for Bakura Ryou.

When he was younger, when larger boys would bully him, he found that running from them was a much better plan than taking the blows. When his mother and sister died, he ran from the hospital room, finding solace in a janitor's closet where he could avoid the image of his father holding that black electrical cord.

When he received the ring, however, he soon realized that running only led him in circles.

_You can't run from yourself, landlord_… the dark voice in his mind told him. It taunted and ridiculed him, belittled and demeaned him. He could never escape it.

Ryou wanted to run from him. He wanted to escape the hatred and torment pushed on his friends.

Ryou wanted to run from him. He wanted to escape the tainted kisses and blood-stained sheets.

Ryou had never wanted to lose his virginity to a voice in his mind. Ryou had never wanted to find his friends speaking to him through lead figurines. Ryou had never wanted to build the instrument of the world's destruction. Ryou had never wanted to be a medium through which the thief could cause harm. Ryou never wanted any of it. Ryou never wanted him.

Ryou wanted to run away from it all. But the thief had been right. You simply can't run from yourself. You'll be running in circles.

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_Comments, plz?_


	12. Anyway

**Drabble #12: Anyway**

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Death had always been a part of Ryou's life. It was surprising, for someone so shy and kind to be enveloped in a world of suffering, but Ryou had become accustomed to it at a young age. The memories came to him from time to time. Memories of slick streets strewn with mangled metal. Of frail bodies riddled with wires and tubes. Of the strident beeping of a monitor as a grief ridden man held a black electrical cord in his pale hands.

Ryou had become accustomed to it all. A life of loneliness was a price he had to pay. That had been his decision. Upon receiving the Ring—feeling its cold, metallic surface on his fingers after it had fallen from its gift wrappings—Ryou had been ready and trained for the loneliness.

It hadn't been his fault, really. He hadn't meant for his friends to become his play toys. He hadn't meant for the families to grieve over lifeless bodies. None of it really registered to him at first.

The Ring had been the source of it all.

Sometimes, Ryou blamed his father for leaving him, and only giving him a cursed piece of jewelry in return. He had been only twelve. And yet, his father left him, ensuring his monetary protection, but not the protection of his heart. Ryou had been grieving too, but his father left him for the lonely sands of Egypt. Ryou blamed his father for killing his mother and sister, for pulling the plug. But that hatred had only lasted a year or so. He knew they had been dead already.

It hadn't been his father's fault, either. How could he have saved his wife and daughter when they were already dead? How could he have known that he would be giving his son to a madman? How could he have known that the twinkling, golden pendant would only mean more suffering for his son? He didn't and he couldn't, of course. Ryou was good at hiding the scars and tears.

Until Ryou turned sixteen, he had simply lived with the loneliness, lived with the pain, and lived with the hands of Death around his throat. They only squeezed a little bit.

When Ryou did turn sixteen things changed. He moved again, fleeing from a marred school record. He met friends, and the spirit that haunted his Ring and his mind came to him more often. The spirit's hands only tightened a little bit—not enough for Ryou to notice.

It had been a slow seduction. The thief held no attachment for Ryou, and only meant to use him for his own purposes. Ryou knew all of this—it was hard not to, when your mind was shared with your personal bane to existence. Why he hadn't stopped it, he couldn't be sure. Why he had allowed himself to be coerced onto tangled sheets, he couldn't possibly know. Why he did not stop the kisses pressed onto his lips by a person who truly wasn't there, he couldn't figure out. Why he had obeyed the thief's instructions for the Dark Game construction, he could not comprehend.

Eventually his entire focus and direction were guided to one end. There was no looking elsewhere for what he sought—he never knew what that was. The spirit had only to mutter "look over here," and Ryou did as he was told. He toiled over the miniatures and game pieces, working harder than he had in his life.

His friends were to die in the game. The only true friends he had ever had.

Death had always been a part of his life, anyway.

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_Last one for a while, I swear. If you want to read any more drabbles, you can find them in my livejournal: itokonoarts. There's a link in my profile. _


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